I REBLOG ADULT CONTENT, SOME OF IT DARK. MINORS DNI, ADULTS PROCEED WITH CAUTION. Geek, Gamer, Crafter, desk-slave. 20 years years past 18. --- I post random stuff; you'll probably see a lot of Transformers, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, or monsters right now. Always on the prowl for good smut. ---
Months back I mentioned an idea on discord and then... never wrote it.
Anyway–!
When your eyes open, it's dark out. Far darker than it had been when you went to sleep. The room was almost pitch black, slivers of light peeking in through the blinds.
On your bedside table, the alarm clock glows a dim red. 2:14
Your eyes flick from it to the familiar shape in the corner, the only part of you able to move.
Sleep paralysis. You'd been having it for months now, always waking up around the same time, always stuck in your own body until you either managed to break out of it– which had never happened– or fell back asleep– which was what usually happened.
As you lied there, frozen, the shape moved, a masculine figure in all black stalking towards your bed. You watch, blinking slowly as he crawls up the bed and towards you.
Ice blue eyes stared down at you as your sleep paralysis demon hovered, hands planted on either side of your head.
You just blinked. Slow. Soft.
His breathing is loud in the dark room, heavy desperate pants as he lifts a hand to rip his mask off his face. You can't see much in the dark, but you can see the faint shapes of jagged scars, places where his flesh had been torn out messily; a jagged landscape you try to drink in before he leans down, stealing a kiss from unresponsive lips.
He grunts, huffs, kissing you desperately as he brackets you with his own form. Sometimes you're still taken aback by how real it feels. But you know it's not. If it were, he wouldn't be gone every time the sun rose.
He pulls back, saliva coating your mouths. "We missed you," he pants, kissing your jaw next, teeth weakly gnawing at your flesh. "So much."
He's heavy, hot, breaths loud as he kisses and suckles at your neck, trying to mark you. A waste of effort, as you never woke up with bruises. Which... obviously, but still. You'd prefer your demon's attention elsewhere instead.
Thankfully he meets your eyes and is able too read you, quickly connecting his mouth to yours again. You manage a weak hum as he pries you open with a sloppy tongue, kissing you deep. He tastes like vodka and cigarettes and something burnt– like food.
You kinda like it.
Your sleep paralysis demon continues to kiss you with desperate affection, hands roaming your form greedily; it had been a while since you'd last been like this, since you'd last seen him. You supposed he must've missed you from wherever he lived in your mind.
After a while though you begin to grow drowsy, eyes slipping shut as you fell back asleep. The last thing you felt was his searing kiss as he whispered something in what sounded like Russian.
In the morning, you stretched with a groan, sitting up slowly. You smacked your lips together, grimacing at the weird taste. You got up and continued to stretch. You were always stiff after being paralyzed like that.
After finishing your morning stretches, you gathered some clothes before heading to the bathroom, passing by the open window as you did.
Your tiktok feed has been filled with spouses packing lunch for their husbands, making neat little meals. You thought it would be fun to film your own!
"Come pack my husbands lunch for a fourteen hour shift!" You happily narrate, ready to show off the meal for ghost that you have down to a science.
One container of last nights leftovers for him to eat in the morning when he gets in. A fresh sandwich with sauce on the side to avoid soggy bread. Beans, rice, and steamed veggies in another box. Of course, the insulated thermos gets some hot soup to keep him warm throughout the day. Two electrolyte drinks, two water bottles though you know he always forgets to drink them.
As always, you make sure to fill it with snacks for him to pick at through the day. Crisps, trail mix, those gummy worms he loves to much.
All that is topped with a hand-written note, though you don't let the camera see that. It's private between you and ghost!
You post the video and move on with your day, only to become upset when you see the comments on it a few days later.
"No way he eats all that!"
"That's just for show. Totally unrealistic! No one needs all those snacks!"
"Do you not expect him to come back for three days??"
The solution? Responding with a video of your beloved husband at dinner that night.
Ghost, a giant of a man hunched over his plate and scarfing down pasta. It's a bit difficult to film, seeing as He's holding your hand like the clingy man he is. Still. You think the sheer size of him and the hunger he has speaks for itself.
The comments after that seem to come to a consensus
"Actually? Absolutely valid. Keep feeding him."
After that, you occasionally post the food you cook for you and your husband and watch in delight as people comment in awe.
Inspired by a chat with @cod-enthusiast and @quarterlifekitty in the discord chat <33
Killing is just a job for him. As depraved as it sounds, he's a natural at it, and he doesn't see himself ever stopping. Not with the ease and the money. When it comes to pulling the trigger, he's never hesitated.
That was until you.
WC: 2.4k
TW: suicidal thoughts, mentions of violence, gun, knife, implied intercourse, probably OOC at points
The job description had come with a hefty paycheck and little to no instructions. Fifteen thousand dollars cash, plus liquid assets. Meet at the coordinates given on Sunday at 4 AM. Details to be given there, payment after successfully finishing the mission.
Ghost isn't an idiot. He shows up with enough weapons on him to get him on the no fly list in every country.
It's damp and cold. If he didn't have his mask on right now, his breath would be coming out in white puffs inside his car. He's put even more on edge when he sees you, a stranger in a sweater and scarf, looking down as you walk.
You knock twice on the hood of his car as discussed. He unlocks the passenger side.
You slip in and take a deep breath. You look a mess, not to mention suspiciously innocent. Your eyes are tired, features ruddy from what seems to be either a lack of sleep or lots of crying. There certainly could be a weapon stashed in your sweater, but somehow he doubts it. An unlucky messenger, maybe.
"Hope it wasn't too hard finding this place," you mutter softly, managing a glance at him. He's scary. From the hard glare, silence, and what looks to be an entire arsenal on him, you get the memo. He isn't here for chit-chat, and he certainly doesn't trust you.
You sigh and soldier on. "As I mentioned in the description, you'll receive all of the money in cash after the job is done. I have some things you'll inherit, but not everything. I wrote a little contract here. It's not very professional, but-"
"Cut the bullshit. Who do you want me to kill?" His voice, gruff and low, cuts through your timid one. You feel yourself sinking into your seat.
"Me," you whisper.
It's nearly imperceptible, but you see his eyes widen. He has a way of staring right at you that puts you on edge. Like he'll shred you if you so much as make a wrong move. Ironic, considering your request.
"You what?" He asks, biting down the incredulity he feels threatening to take over his tone.
You swallow and take another deep breath, feeling emboldened. "I'm paying you to kill me. I want you to witness my last week, then put me out painlessly in my sleep. I know it's not very conventional-"
He pulls a knife on you. You can feel the presence of its cold, fatal edge just millimeters from your throat. His eyes are narrowed.
"Jesus, man," you shakily mutter.
"Who the fuck sent you?" Ghost barks.
"No one!" You feel stupid for the tears that threaten your eyes. You squeeze them shut. "It's all legit, ok? I just can't seem to do it myself, so I figured I'd pay someone. I'm just," you pause, breathing again. "I'm just done."
Ghost scrutinizes you further. You don't see it, but you can feel it - his eyes roaming over you, looking for even the slightest falsehood. Anything to indicate a lie.
You must have passed his parameters. You hear him sheath the blade.
"Bloody insane," he mutters, more to himself than you. "Fine. One week, and not a second more."
Day 1
"Red onions or yellow onions?" You look to Ghost, who pushes the cart beside you. He's switched the menacing mask for a simple balaclava under a hoodie. He gives you his signature 'I don't give a fuck' look. Expressive for a man of few words. "Yellow it is."
You get stares wherever you go with him following you. You can see why; Ghost is tall and imposing, his silence oppressive. Its nice, in a way. You feel seen beside him.
You pay for the groceries and exit the store. He puts them into the trunk of his car and drives you to your apartment.
When you enter your small place, he goes about his usual cautious routine, searching each corner and frame for some threat. You would roll your eyes, but you know its how he's survived in a harsh profession. You'd be more concerned if he didn't look around.
"You can do whatever," you shrug your coat off and start to unpack groceries to start on dinner. It's a little early, but you have nothing better to do. You quit your job last week. "TV remote is on the table if you wanna watch something."
You chop vegetables and meat in relative silence. He eventually deems the place up to his standard of safety and sits down, flicking through channels on the television. When you finish dinner, you sit on the other side of the couch and hand him a plate. "I usually only cook for one, so sorry if it came out weird."
He eats without complaint. After eating and watching shows together, you find that you don't mind the silence. Whatever it is to him, you find it domestic and comfortable. You're allowed a little bit of comfort in your last week.
For bed, you offer him pajamas, which he declines. He follows you to your room. "Gotta keep my eye on you. Just in case," He asserts in a low voice. He sits on a chair in the corner, arms crossed as he watches you. You roll your eyes, but your sleep comes quick and dreamlessly.
Day 3
The next couple days are spent much the same way. He follows you and begrudgingly participates in whatever activites you throw at him. So far you've made him go to the movies and visit the aquarium with you. Now, you've forced him on a walk in the park.
It's another grey fall day. Sometimes he walks so mechanically that it makes you want to laugh. You make him push you on the swing for a bit just because it inconveniences him. When the novelty is gone, you let him stop. "You can sit on the other swing."
He takes it. You're not sure how long you're both sat there, quiet like always. You swing slightly, really just kicking your feet, and watch the clouds as they pass.
"I like fall."
He snorts. "I bet you do. Gloomy ass."
You roll your eyes, but you smile anyways. You chance a question. "You have any family?"
You expected this same silence from him. What you didn't expect was for his quiet, hoarse answer after minutes without replying. "No."
You nod and look ahead. Is it a painful subject for everyone? "I do," you reply.
"Complicated?" More of a statement than a question.
A sigh. "Yeah."
You kick at the damp woodchips below you and bite the inside of your cheek to stop that sudden urge to cry. "I don't think they understand me."
"Do families ever understand?"
That makes you chuckle. You may have imagined it, but his eyes seemed to crinkle with the hints of a smile.
"Let's go," you stand. "It's getting dark."
Day 6
"I don't see the appeal," he gruffly states. You can hear the smirk in his voice. "Are you seriously crying?"
You sniffle and wipe the popcorn butter off your cheek. "You just don't get it. It's a cinematic masterpiece."
Since the beginning of this week, you and. Ghost had fallen into a comfortable routine. Meal, activity, nap, meal, activity, sleep. Tonight, you had gotten him to watch Pride and Prejudice with you - the 2005 version, of course - and he had made snarky comments the entire time.
"Yes, a masterpiece. You hardly ever see a male director get the female gaze right, Ghost, and," you huff as you catch him mocking you, his hand puppetting your words as you speak. You smack him with a pillow.
His eyebrows raise. "Oh, you do not want to go there with me, sweetheart." You raise your head in defiance. "Maybe I do."
He looks at you, giving you a chance to take the words back. You nail him in the face with another cushion.
He pounces. You laugh and kick and squeal, smacking him with anything you can grab. He's stronger and faster - anything he doesn't block doesn't even make him flinch.
He pins you down with a hand on your chest and uses the other to whack you repeatedly with a pillow. "Ack! Son of a -" You uselessly use your hands to try to grab the pillow or smack it away, but he smacks you anyways. "Ok ok! I surrender!"
He stops and looks down at you. You're breathing heavy, and you're smiling - really smiling. It's the first time he's seen it on you.
He drops the pillow. The hand that was on your chest releases you. You look into his eyes and you feel your heart beating against your ribs.
You eyelids flutter shut. He pulls his balaclava up just enough for his lips to meet yours.
Day 7
Ghost can't believe how impulsive he was last night. It wasn't like him. There's no room for emotions in this job, and certainly no room for waking up naked in his client's bed. You were warm in his arms.
He shakes the thought. He screwed up, yes, but it's your last day and he has no time to think about the mistake. He needs to focus on fulfilling your last needs. He takes you out to eat, drives you out to watch the city lights for awhile. You haven't had much to say.
He lays in bed with you, straining his eyes to watch the subtle changes in your expression. You're on your sides, facing each other. You trace his rough palm with a finger. He tries to ignore the electricity it sends through his nerves.
"Will it hurt?" You whisper. Suddenly, his throat feels tight. He shakes his head.
"No. You won't feel a thing."
He watches your chest rise and fall with a new breath, and the tears forming in your eyes. He catches them with a thumb before they can hit the pillow.
"I know I didn't put it in the contract, but do you think you could make sure I always have flowers on my grave? I like flowers. I don't know if anyone will leave some for me."
He lets you lace your fingers with his. His own curl to hold your hand.
"I guess I can do that."
You finally look at him. Your words tremble as they leave your lips. "Do you think I'll get into heaven?"
He frowns. Slowly, he pulls you closer. You didn't think you'd be doing so much crying this week.
"I don't know about heaven and hell," he mutters, "But if we end up in the same place, someone made a poor judgement call."
When you finally calm down, you can feel sleep taking you.
"Goodnight, Ghost."
He waits a few hours until he's sure you're deep in sleep. He slips out carefully, not wanting to wake you up. From a case, he preps his pistol. For some damn reason, his hand won't stop shaking when he points it at your forehead.
Day 8
When you wake up, light filters in through the blinds. You rub your eyes. Heaven feels just like my room, you think. That is, until you realize this is your room, and you're still alive.
You rub your eyes. Some part of you is relieved, if not confused. You leave your bed and look around the place. It's like nothing has happened, and no one has been here. Something like dread or disappointment sits in your throat. Had you imagined it all?
Your head snaps right as something catches your eye. A little yellow square. You peel a single sticky note off of your fridge. So it wasn't a dream. You smile to yourself. He has shitty handwriting. You read it, and fuck, you're crying again.
Keep your money. I'm too busy trying to get that awful movie out of my head.
Request some delicious Nikto based links. Know that man fucks likea madman. Full on mating press, mouth to neck leaving bites drool, going at till he is the one overstimulated. Feel like he is in second place after konig for the most mess. Also see em as a munch with a preference from behind or with em upside down face shoved to is lap/choking on his cock.
nasty nikto 🔪 (🌽 link)
alternative link (bsky)
there are some words that become too small to encapsulate the essence of a person. especially if that person is built-like-a-tank nikto, war criminal nikto, rough-around-the-edges nikto. everything is too small for him.
that's why saying that he fucks nasty doesn't do him justice. it's better to say he fucks filthy. his built frame pinning you against the soft bed. hands bunching up the bedsheets under you as you brace for his madman-like fucking.
only the loud plaping of skin, your moans, and his groans can be heard in that room. hands roughly grabbing your hips, making yo change from prone bone to doggy. his hand finding your hair an pulling on it slightly, making you arch your back.
slumping forwards from how good he's fucking you when he lets go of your hair. hand sitting on your ass to guide you back, making you meet his deep harsh thrusts. walls pulsing around him as he beging to lick every crevice of skin he can and marking you until he makes a mess out of your body.
you look so pretty when your head is empty and you pussy is full
Synopsis: You’re a doctor with a unique patient that’s full of personality and bruises. He shows up twice a week, bleeding from somewhere new every time. Won’t stop smiling at you like you’re his favorite person in the world.
Today he tells you his heart hurts.
You make the mistake of checking.
Dear Doctor ♡
"Hello, doctor! Happy to see you again~"
The familiar singsong voice calls out to you the moment you enter the examination room.
You don't even have to look to know who it is. Waiting for you obediently on the table. Like always.
"Can't say I feel the same," you sigh once your eyes land on him.
As expected, it’s him. And he's bleeding on the table, clutching one arm that looks terribly out of shape. It was purple, swollen, and most definitely hurts.
Yet even through all that, he still has a wide smile on his face, eyes crinkled, waving at you like you're old friends reuniting after a long time.
"Hey, stop waving with that purple looking arm! Wait, don't move at all actually."
You hurry to his side with the needed equipment. Gloves... Antiseptic... Sutures... The usual.
"And wipe that grin off your face! You think it's funny bleeding on my table twice a week like it's some routine?"
Your frown deepens as his smile does the opposite. Eyes crinkling adorably, looking way too innocent for the blood dripping down his forehead.
"I'm sorry, Miss doctor. But some jobs require a few injuries on the daily. Don't scold me too harshly now."
He whines. But the smile on his face betrays any act he had going on.
This guy isn't the slightest bit sorry.
You sigh for the third time today—all because of one person—and start working on the bleeding man more seriously.
If someone had told you becoming a doctor would earn you a clingy and dangerous patient, you would've called them crazy.
But here he was. Although much different compared to the first time you'd met.
*****
Five months ago.
The first time he showed up, you almost didn't let him in.
Blood dripping down his knuckles. He had one arm sliced open, split lip, and shirt soaked with blood. Should’ve gone to the ER, not some new physician!
He slumped into the waiting room chair like he owned the place, not even looking at you.
The first thing he said to you?
"Fix it." He didn’t ask or explain. Leaving you with these two words to work with.
Yep. That's how your first meeting went. A bleeding man ordering you around like he was the boss.
You were new here. Fresh out of residency, eager to prove yourself.
And the bleeding was bad enough you worried he wouldn’t make it to ER at this point. So you sighed, snapped on your gloves, and got to work.
He didn't thank you, didn’t even look at you the whole time. Just stared at the wall like he wanted to punch through it.
You figured you'd never see him again.
*****
Second visit.
New injuries. Same attitude.
"Back again?" you asked, already pulling out the antiseptic.
He grunted.
You worked in silence. He flinched once when you hit a deep cut on his ribs, but didn't make a sound otherwise.
"Someone's doing a number on you," you said quietly.
He didn't answer.
*****
Third visit.
Something shifted.
He walked in and his eyes found you immediately. Held for a second longer than before. Like he was checking that you were still there.
"You again," he said. Almost like a greeting.
"Me again," you echoed, already reaching for your kit. "You really need to stop getting into fights."
He didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
You counted that as a win.
*****
Fourth visit.
He spoke first.
"Long day?"
You blinked. "Yeah. Long week, actually."
He nodded without adding anything else.
But when you leaned in to clean a cut on his jaw, he didn't pull away like he used to.
He just... watched you.
"You're staring," you muttered.
"Am I?"
"Stop it."
"Make me."
You never expected him to be hiding such a big personality, not after the first impression he’d given you.
You pressed the antiseptic harder than necessary.
He didn't flinch, just grinned.
Jerk.
*****
Fifth. Sixth. Seventh...
He started coming every week. Sometimes twice.
You told yourself it was just bad luck. Some people are accident-prone. It's not your job to ask questions.
But you noticed things.
The way he relaxed when you touched him. The way his breathing slowed when you leaned close. The way his eyes followed your hands like he was memorizing the movement.
He started talking more. Little things. Compliments buried under sarcasm.
"Your bedside manner's getting softer, doc."
"You look tired. Someone not sleeping?"
"Those are new glasses. Cute."
You rolled your eyes every time, but you didn't tell him to stop. You knew he wouldn’t anyways.
*****
Two months in.
The injuries started getting stranger, you realized.
Not the kind you get from random fights. They were too precise. Too controlled.
A cut here… A bruise there... Nothing life-threatening or deep enough to leave any permanent damage.
But enough to bleed.
Enough to need you.
*****
Three months in.
A small scene you didn't think much of at the time.
You were at the nurse's station, charting. One of the younger nurses—Lisa, friendly, always smiling—leaned over your shoulder.
"Hey, doc. That guy who's always in here. The one with the sliced arm?"
You smirked at the nickname, it stuck with the staff after his first visit here.
"What about him?" You glanced up.
Lisa lowered her voice. "He gives me the creeps."
That made you laugh. "He gives everyone the creeps."
"No, I mean..." She hesitated. "He asked about you last week. When you weren't here."
Your pen stopped moving, a little more curious now.
"What did he ask?"
"Just... what time you get in. If you work weekends. If anyone walks you to your car." Lisa shivered. "He was smiling the whole time. Like it was a normal conversation."
You didn't know what to say. So you said nothing.
Lisa shrugged it off. "Anyway. Just thought you should know."
She walked away.
You stared at the chart in your hands for a long time.
*****
The next time he came in.
You watched him differently.
The way his eyes followed you across the room. The way he knew where the antiseptic was before you reached for it. The way he'd already rolled up his sleeve before you asked.
"Something wrong, doc?" he asked, catching your stare.
"No."
"You're looking at me funny."
"I always look at you funny. You're always bleeding on my table."
He laughed. That low, warm sound that used to mean nothing and now meant something.
"You're deflecting."
"I'm working."
He let it go, his smile didn't fade.
And when you leaned in to clean a cut near his collarbone, he whispered:
"I like it when you worry about me."
Your hands paused.
"I'm a doctor. I worry about all my patients." You emphasized, trying to ignore the way his brows furrowed at your statement.
"No, you don't."
He said it so simply. So sure.
You didn't argue.
*****
Present.
You've finally finished cleaning him up. Stitched the deep tissue and bandaged him as well as you could.
You step back a bit to survey your work. Then let out a long sigh.
It hasn't even been a week, yet he’s already back so bloody.
"Alright. I think we're all done... unless there are some other injuries I missed."
He doesn't answer right away.
He's looking at you. Softly. Like you're the only light in a dark room.
Then his hand drifts up to the left side of his chest. Right over his heart.
"Doctor..." He feigns pain, voice dipping low. Less playful now. "I think I'm hurt here."
You frown. "Where? Let me see."
He points. You lean forward, squinting at his chest. Trying to find a wound you must have missed.
"There's nothing—"
"Every time you look at me," he says, "my chest gets tight."
Your hands freeze.
"Every time you touch me, my heart forgets how to beat right."
He's not looking at your hands anymore. He's looking at your eyes.
"You're the only doctor who can fix this."
You swallow. "That's not... that's not a real injury."
"No?"
"No."
He smiles slowly, sweetly.
"Then why does it hurt so much when you're not around?"
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
“Ugh, wait, it’s starting to hurt more!” He suddenly doubles down, hand hovering over his chest again, and face contorting dramatically in pain.
You believe him for a moment—that was your biggest mistake—and go lean closer to his chest, trying to find an invisible injury.
“What? Where exactly I can’t see anything—“
And that's when he moves.
He leans over your head, and you feel something soft land on the middle of your eyebrows.
A quick peck, right on your forehead. Over before you can process it.
You jerk back so fast you nearly fall off your stool. Your hand flies to your forehead like you've been burned.
Your mouth opens, closes, opens again—trying to articulate a sentence. Nothing comes out except a strangled sputter.
He's already off the table, grinning like he just won a prize.
"Thank you for your hard work, doctor~"
You find your voice. "You—you can't just—"
He's backing toward the door. Still smiling. Still watching you with those lovesick eyes.
"Now don't go flirting with any nurses while I'm gone!"
He pauses at the door to tilt his head.
His smile doesn't change, but his eyes do.
"I don't wanna come back more bloody next time~"
The door swings shut behind him.
You're left standing there. Hand still on your forehead and heart pounding.
He never said he was joking.
Your eyes drift to the empty doorway.
And for some reason, you think of Lisa.
The way she shivered when she talked about him.
The way she doesn't lean over your shoulder anymore.
The way she transferred to the morning shift last week without ever saying goodbye.
Scara is the undisputed king of high-stakes gaming, a streamer who thrives in the darkest corners of Resident Evil speedruns and the high-pressure lobbies of Valorant where his mechanical precision is matched only by his biting wit. His room is a fortress of sharp angles and cold neon lighting, a dark sanctuary where the only sound is the frantic clatter of his mechanical keyboard and his own voice cutting through the tension. He is the "sweaty" gamer personified, a man who treats a single missed headshot as a personal failing, leading to legendary "rage-quits" that are usually followed by him staring into the camera with a look of pure, focused disdain.
"Are you seeing this? My crosshair was literally on his skull," Scara snaps at his chat, his eyes narrowed as he watches a replay of a lost round. He leans back, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on his desk while the chat fills with "L" spams and laughing emotes. "The hitbox in this game is a joke. Anyone who says otherwise is coping or silver-ranked, and quite frankly, I don't have the patience to explain the difference to you today." He’s mid-sentence when the sound of a soft door-creak echoes through his high-end mic, and the jagged edge of his expression blunts instantly. You wander into the frame, blinking sleepily against the harsh red glow of his setup, carrying a plate of sliced apples.
"You’re still at it?" you ask, your voice a soft, lo-fi contrast to the aggressive electronic music pumping through his headset. You lean down, resting your chin on his shoulder and peering at the screen where a tactical map is covered in frantic pings. Scara doesn't look away from the monitor, but he shifts his chair just an inch to the left, creating a space for you to lean into. "Eat an apple, Scara. You’ve been surviving on caffeine and spite for four hours." He lets out a huff that’s supposed to sound like a dismissal, but he obediently opens his mouth as you hold out a slice. "Spite is a very efficient fuel source," he mutters around the fruit, his voice losing that sharp, performative bite.
The whiplash of switching between your tabs is a rite of passage for your fans. One moment, they're watching him scream at a zombie-infested hallway, and the next, they are watching you spend forty-five minutes deciding which shade of blue looks best for your character's flower garden. Your world is built on the foundation of lo-fi beats, pastel-colored overlays, and games where the primary objective is usually to decorate a house or organize a virtual shelf. Your community is a sanctuary of kindness, a place where people come to decompress from the very kind of stress that Scara’s channel produces in bulk. During your occasional co-op streams, this clashing of worlds becomes a comedy of errors that usually ends with him accidentally proving how much he adores your "boring" hobbies.
"Why are we standing here? The sun is going down, we’re losing daylight," Scara’s avatar says in Stardew Valley, pacing circles around your character who is currently staring at a fence post. "Scara, I'm trying to decide if the wooden fence or the stone fence looks more 'cottage-core,'" you reply calmly, clicking through your inventory. He stops his character and stares directly at you. "It’s a fence. Its purpose is to keep the livestock from escaping. The wooden one is cheaper to craft and easier to replace. This isn't a diplomatic summit, it’s a farm." You let out a small giggle, placing a wooden post down and then immediately breaking it. "But the stone one has such a nice texture."
He lets out a long, theatrical groan, leaning his head back against his chair and staring at the ceiling for his camera to see. "I am a professional. I have a 1.8 K/D in one of the hardest shooters on the market. And yet, here I am, debating the 'texture' of a 16-bit rock with a woman who hasn't even upgraded her watering can yet." Despite the complaining, he spends the next hour silently gathering all the stone you need, clearing your entire farm of debris with the same terrifying efficiency he uses to clear a bomb site. When you finally finish the fence and tell him it looks "perfect," he just mumbles, "Whatever. I’m going to go get more wood so you can waste that on the 'aesthetic' too," while his character icon practically dances around yours in circles.
The "Scare Swap" events are perhaps the most anticipated nights of the year, where you are forced to play one of his horror games while he sits beside you as a "guide." You’re currently trembling through a corridor in Resident Evil, the flashlight beam on the screen flickering as your hand shakes. "I don't like this, Scara, I don't like the breathing noises," you whisper, your character frozen in a doorway. Scara is sitting just out of frame, his eyes glued to your screen, and while he’ll make snarky comments about your "terrible aim," his hand is resting firmly on the back of your chair. "Just walk forward. You have three shotgun shells and a knife. Even if you miss every shot, I’ve seen you win a fistfight with a slime, you'll be fine," he says, his voice dropping to a low, grounding murmur.
Suddenly, a monster crashes through a window, and you let out a genuine shriek, dropping the controller onto your lap and covering your eyes. Scara doesn't laugh instead he leans in closer his chest pressing against your shoulder as he reaches for the controller. "Hey, breathe. It’s just pixels," he says, his tone shifting into something surprisingly tender that his chat has never heard before. He doesn't take over the game entirely; he just puts his hands over yours, guiding your thumbs on the joysticks. "See? We’re just going to turn around, go through the door, and ignore him. Don't look back. I’ve got you." The chat goes into a frenzy, but he doesn't care, his focus entirely on the way your breathing hitches against his neck.
His protectiveness extends far beyond the gameplay, as he is secretly the most terrifying moderator your "cozy" channel has ever seen. While he maintains his persona as a lone wolf, he spends his off-time lurking in your stream, his dark room illuminated by the soft glow of your pastel-pink world. If a viewer ever dares to make a disparaging comment about your "boring" content, they get a direct, scathing call-out from him. "Hey, user99, I see you in the other chat saying this stream is 'sleep-inducing,'" Scara says during his own live broadcast, leaning into his mic with a predatory grin. "If you’re too mentally overstimulated to appreciate a well-organized storage chest, that sounds like a personal deficiency. Go watch a subway surfers clip and leave her alone before I ban you from my channel too."
There’s a legendary clip from a late-night stream where Scara was deep into a "no-hit" run of a notoriously difficult boss, his focus so intense that he hadn't blinked in what seemed like minutes. You wandered in, still half-asleep and wearing a fluffy robe, completely oblivious to the fact that he was at the final boss of a five-hour challenge. You leaned over and rested your head on his shoulder, mumbling, "Scara, I can't find the remote, and the bed is cold." Without a second of hesitation, he let go of the controller, effectively letting the boss kill him and failing the challenge just to wrap an arm around you and pull you into his lap. The chat went silent as the "Game Over" screen flashed, only for Scara to look into the camera with a bored expression.
"What are you looking at? The run was dead anyway," he lies easily, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your arm while you nestle into his chest. "Go to sleep, chat. I have better things to do than entertain people who can't even parry a basic attack." He ends the stream abruptly, the screen going black, but the fans know exactly what happened next. This constant push and pull between his high-octane professional life and your serene influence is what makes your dynamic the crown jewel of the community. You are the only person who can make him "rage-quit" not out of anger, but because you mentioned you were lonely, and he is the only person you allow to ruin your "aesthetic" with his tactical spreadsheets.
Yandere!Bodyguard isn’t actually a yandere; he’s just a man running on four hours of sleep, three energy drinks, and pure cortisol because of you. He doesn't want to lock you in a cage, he just wants you to stop treating the stage like a playground. He’s permanently gripping his earpiece, eyes wide and bloodshot, watching you skip down the stairs without looking at your feet.
Yandere!Bodyguard has developed superhuman reflexes entirely because of your antics. You’re the type of idol who likes to lean way over the barricade to high-five fans, or sit on the very edge of the stage with your legs dangling into the pit. Every time you do it, his heart stops. He’ll physically slide behind you, grabbing you by the back of your belt or your jacket just to anchor you. "Please, just sit back," he’ll mutter, his voice shaking with pure stress. "You're going to give me a heart attack."
Yandere!Bodyguard hates the "aesthetic" outfits your stylists give you. High platforms? Loose ribbons? He views them as literal death traps. When you tripped over your own gown at an awards show and almost face-planted down a flight of marble stairs, he caught you by the waist before the cameras could even flash. He didn't let go until you were safely in the green room, where he stood over you, rubbing his temples. "No more platforms. I'm telling management tomorrow."
Yandere!Bodyguard is the only reason you haven't been banned from your own concerts for safety violations. When you suddenly decide to climb up on a speaker box to get closer to the upper balcony, he’s already moving. He will stand directly underneath you with his arms half-extended, looking like a stressed-out parent waiting for a toddler to jump off a couch. He doesn't care if it looks unprofessional on the livestream; he’s not letting you break your neck on his watch.
Yandere!Bodyguard handles your "careless" attitude with a mix of exhaustion and deep affection. When you laugh off a near-fall by saying, "Oops, clumsy me!", he doesn't find it cute. He’ll grab you by the shoulders, force you to look at him, and say, "It’s not funny. If you fall, I fail. If you get hurt, I'm the one who has to carry you out." He treats your safety like a sacred vow, and your lack of survival instincts is slowly killing him.
Yandere!Bodyguard gets incredibly hostile toward your management team when they overwork you. He knows that when you’re tired, you get even more clumsy. If he sees you stumbling during a rehearsal, he’ll physically step onto the stage, block the choreography coach, and call a mandatory break. He doesn't care if he gets fired, your safety is more important than the schedule.
Yandere!Bodyguard has a very specific "romantic" realization when he realizes why he’s so stressed. It’s not just about the paycheck anymore. When you finally fall asleep in the back of the van after a long show, he’ll carefully adjust your blanket and watch you breathe, his heart finally slowing down. He realizes he’s not just protecting an idol, he’s protecting the only person he actually cares about, even if that person keeps trying to accidentally jump off a stage.
Yandere!Bodyguard is the star of a viral 10-minute TikTok compilation titled "Mr. Bodyguard vs. [Reader]’s Zero Survival Instincts" that currently has 5 million views. The entire edit is just zoomed-in clips of his face in the background while you’re doing something reckless, and his expression is always pure, unfiltered panic.
Yandere!Bodyguard became a meme after an awards show where you were walking up steep marble stairs in five-inch heels, waving to fans without looking down. The fan-cam focused on him at the bottom of the steps; his knees were literally bent, his hands were out like he was ready to dive-tackle the stage, and his jaw was clenching every time your heel wobbled.
Yandere!Bodyguard nearly crashed your backstage livestream when you leaned all the way over a balcony railing to show fans the view. In the reflection of the glass doors, you can see his shadow immediately appear. He didn't want to interrupt the stream, so he just stood in the frame, gripping the door molding so hard his knuckles went white, ready to yank you back by your waist.
Yandere!Bodyguard looked like a meerkat sensing a predator in a famous concert clip where you suddenly decided to hop onto a giant subwoofer. The second your foot touched the speaker, his head snapped around so fast you could practically hear his neck crack, followed by him bolting over to stand directly underneath you with his arms half-raised.
Yandere!Bodyguard was caught on camera pacing back and forth in the wings like a nervous father in a hospital waiting room during an outdoor concert in the pouring rain. The stage was slick like ice, and every single time you did a dance move that involved jumping or spinning, he would visibly flinch and cover his mouth.
Yandere!Bodyguard completely threw out the professional boundary rulebook in the fandom's favorite looped clip, where you actually did slip backward over a stage wire. He lunged out of nowhere, caught you mid-air, and wrapped his arms around you so tight your face buried into his chest, letting out a massive, shaky exhale into your hair that the high-definition cameras caught perfectly.
Yandere!Bodyguard is the sole reason the comment sections on every fan site are filled with people yelling, "Give this man a raise or a sedative." The fans have turned his high-stress reactions into a massive shipping meme, pointing out that the way he looks at you like you're a fragile glass vase about to shatter is lowkey the most romantic thing they've ever seen.
Yandere!Boyfriend x Reader (ft. Reader's cat that hates him)
Yandere!Boyfriend views himself as a dark, calculating mastermind who has meticulously eliminated every rival in your life. He took care of the flirty coworker, he blocked your annoying ex, and he curated your entire schedule around him. But his entire criminal empire completely crumbles the second he steps into your apartment and locks eyes with your 8-pound tabby cat, Mr. Chonk.
Mr. Chonk doesn't just dislike him; Mr. Chonk recognizes him as an apex predator trespassing on his territory. The very first time your boyfriend tried to sneak a lock of your hair while you were napping on the couch, the cat dropped from the top of the refrigerator like a tactical navy seal, hissed directly into his face, and swatted him across the nose. It was an instant, blood-soaked declaration of war.
His yandere logic is completely warped by this animal. He genuinely treats the cat like a romantic rival. He’ll sit on the kitchen floor, glaring at the cat under the dining table, and hiss back in a whisper so you won't hear him. "You think you're safe because they feed you? I could replace you in a second, you furry little demon. They're mine. Stop looking at them like that." Mr. Chonk just blinks at him and licks a paw, completely unfazed.
Yandere!Boyfriend realizes very quickly that if he wants to achieve his ultimate goal of moving in with you and keeping you all to himself, he has to earn the cat's trust. If he doesn't, you’ll never let him sleep over. So, his data-mining and stalking skills are suddenly redirected toward animal behavior. He spends hours on the dark web and sketchy forums, not looking up your background, but searching: “How to bribe an aggressive feline,” “Cat psychology manipulation,” and “Can you gaslight a cat into liking you?”
Yandere!Boyfriend's attempts at bribery are incredibly intense and deeply dramatic. He’ll show up at your apartment with a bouquet of roses for you, and a literal premium can of wild-caught salmon for the cat. He’ll slide the dish under the couch where the cat is hiding, kneeling on the carpet with a deadpan, serious look on his face. "Eat the tribute, beast. Let us form an alliance. We both want them to stay inside forever. We are on the same side." Mr. Chonk just bats the can away and claws his finger.
Yandere!Boyfriend gets aggressively jealous of the affection you give the cat. If you’re sitting on the couch, scratching Mr. Chonk behind the ears and cooing about how he’s "the handsomest boy in the whole world," your boyfriend will literally pout. He’ll crawl over, shove his own head into your lap right next to the cat, and look up at you with wide, desperate eyes. "I'm handsome too. I don't shed. And I don't scratch you. Pet me instead, please." This usually results in the cat swatting his forehead again, sparking a silent glaring match right in your lap.
Yandere!Boyfriend eventually tries to use high-tech gamer gear to win the war. He buys a super-powered, military-grade laser pointer to entertain the cat, thinking he can tire out his rival. He stands in the center of your living room, frantically flicking his wrist, running the red dot up and down the walls while laughing like a cartoon villain. "Yes! Run! Consume your energy, creature! Collapse from exhaustion so I can have her undivided attention!"
The day Mr. Chonk finally decides to tolerate him is the funniest day of his life. Your boyfriend is sitting on the couch, completely drained and miserable because you went to the store, and the cat casually hops up, sniffs his leg, and plops down right on his chest completely pinning him to the cushions. When you walk back into the apartment, you find your terrifying, possessive boyfriend frozen stiff, breathing softly, with a terrified but triumphant look on his face. He whispers to you: "Don't move. Don't make a sound. The demon has accepted my offering. I am officially part of the hierarchy. We can get married now."
